I Was a Man with Breast Cancer in a World Built to Treat Women. Here’s How It Changed Me

Originally published in GQ

In the spring of 2009, I was told I had breast cancer—a diagnosis I didn’t even know a man could receive until it applied to me.

A month earlier, I was wrestling with my two young boys. Ted, my five-year-old, rammed his head into me. A sharp pain shot through my chest, lasting a few seconds. I forgot about it until it happened again a week later. I was concerned it was my heart, but my nipple felt strangely irritated—as if I had chafed it while riding a boogie board. After the third jolt, I went to see my internist, who, while kneading my chest like a wad of sourdough, discovered a small lump. “It’s probably nothing,” he assured me, “but get a mammogram to be on the safe side.”

Two days later, I found myself at the nearest breast center. I started filling out the intake forms before realizing many of the questions didn’t apply to me: “Date of my last period?” “Heavy or light flow?” “How many pregnancies have I had?” Finally, a nurse called out: “Mrs. Greenberg.”

I stood up, as confusion washed over her face. She led me to a back entrance, then escorted me through a maze of service corridors so I wouldn’t cross paths with the female patients in their paper gowns and make them uncomfortable.

In the imaging room, she positioned my meager breast tissue into the machine, pressing and twisting my pec into something resembling a pancake. As I tried to breathe through the discomfort, she reminded me that women have to suffer this indignity every year. Afterward, she snuck me back out like an enemy combatant and put me in an empty office. I perused the magazines: Oprah, Redbook, Women’s Health. And the pamphlets and flyers: “Bosom Buddies,” “Pink-Link,” “What Every Woman Should Know.” I opted for Women’s Health. Thirty minutes later, the radiologist walked in and asked me about my weekend. “Got any fun plans?” What? I thought. No small talk. Get right to it. Am I going to grow old? Am I going to get to see my kids graduate from college? Instead, I said, “I’ve got Clippers tickets for Saturday.” Finally, he told me my mammogram looked a little suspicious, “but it’s probably nothing.” I was starting to hear that a lot.

He recommended that I get a biopsy and directed me to a breast clinic down the block that could fit me in that day. When I called, the receptionist asked: “Is this appointment for you?” At check-in, they handed me a short pink gown with cap sleeves. I changed into it and waited in the procedure room. Forty minutes later (the world of cancer, I was learning, is 90% waiting) a doctor strolled in. “So,” he said, “been to any interesting restaurants lately?” Again? I responded with curt, one-word answers, hoping he’d take the hint. “Nope… Yep… Maybe.”

Eventually, he numbed the area, then stuck a fat needle into my chest. But he kept missing the right spot, like a monkey playing darts. When he finally hit the bull’s-eye, I felt a pain I had never felt before—a white-hot burning sensation. I was sweating, breathing hard, and for the first time thought: This might not be nothing.

As I left, grateful to be back in pants, the doctor smiled. “You have to try Il Pastaio,” he said. “Order the tuna carpaccio.” At this moment I began to hate all doctors, even the ones I liked.

That Friday, at 4:48 p.m., the phone rang. I had breast cancer. After the initial shock, everything started to move quickly—PET scans, blood tests, specialists, more waiting. Driving from appointment to appointment, I became acutely aware of the gap between the sick and the healthy; we inhabit two very different worlds. But I was also navigating a disease that did not cater to my gender—less than 1% of all breast cancer cases in the US occur in men. I was starting to feel a sense of isolation.

I didn’t know any other men with breast cancer. I didn’t feel comfortable sharing my true fears with my wife, Gaby—the idea of raising our two young boys alone felt like too much to ask her to hold. My brother tried to be supportive, but since my diagnosis implied something scary about our shared genetics, he was distracted by his own health concerns. My friends wanted to be there for me, but every time I showed up at a party or a bar, a quiet seemed to set in. I couldn’t help but feel I was a walking reminder of the fragility of life. And nobody wanted to be reminded. They wanted resolution. They wanted the story to be over. So, they would say stupid things like: “Fuck ’em, you’re gonna kick cancer’s ass.” As if cancer was my high school bully. Or worse, they would offer sympathy by telling me about their 87-year-old grandmother who was just diagnosed. At one point, a friend shared that her sister had breast cancer a few years ago. I asked how she was doing now. “Unfortunately, she died,” the friend responded. Needless to say, it was not a helpful exchange.

Perhaps most surprising was that women with breast cancer didn’t seem eager to talk with me either. Occasionally I’d get a call: Someone’s friend just got diagnosed, would I be willing to speak to her? Of course, I’d say—secretly thrilled to have a cancer buddy, a comrade in arms.

But they would never call. I voiced my disappointment to my doctor, and she explained that women were dealing with body image, sexuality, societal beauty standards, reconstruction decisions—things a man can’t fully understand. I respected that. But it just confirmed my situation: I was stranded on a desert island.

Three days after my diagnosis, Gaby and I sat in another waiting room at the hospital. Along with a half dozen other worried couples, I filled out more forms: “Have you experienced menopause?” “Have you had a hysterectomy?” “Did you breastfeed?” At least for the moment, I passed as just another husband here to support his recently diagnosed wife.

The surgeon I was there to see was calm and confident, even though he said he operates on only one, maybe two men a year. He explained that I needed a mastectomy. Another thing I thought was reserved exclusively for women. During the surgery, he would remove the tumor and several sentinel lymph nodes and test them while I laid unconscious on the operating table. I would lose my left nipple and leave with a large scar. After the procedure, I would have drains sticking out of the wound for a few weeks collecting fluids in a small purse.

The following Thursday, I checked into the hospital at 6:30 a.m. There was something surreal about walking in with no outward symptoms knowing I was about to be cut open. They rolled me into the operating room. The anesthesiologist started an IV, then “snowed” me. I tried to stay awake as long as possible to enjoy the sensation of disappearing from the world.

The truth is this was not my first experience with breast cancer. My mother was diagnosed when she turned 37. Decades later, her doctors discovered another tumor—a large sarcoma between her left lung and her ribs. It was most likely caused by the radiation she received for her breast cancer. But this time, her prognosis was not good. She was dying from the treatment that saved her life.

I was six when she first got breast cancer. My parents kept it a secret from me and my brother. One day, I got home from school and she wasn’t there. At dinner that night, my father finally came clean. “Your mother is having a small procedure,” he explained. “Everything will be fine, and she’ll be home in a few days.” Because I was so young, I believed him. It wasn’t until years later that I learned she had stage 3 breast cancer that had spread to her lymph nodes.

I wanted to do better with my own kids. Gaby and I sat on the floor with our two boys and told them the truth in the simplest way possible, skipping a few of the scariest details. I explained that my doctor felt a small growth in my chest. They had done tests and found it was something called cancer. “I’ll be okay,” I said, “but it needs to come out. I’ll be in the hospital overnight, and you can come visit me. I’m sure you have lots of questions, so fire away.” Then I waited. Silence. Sam, the two-year-old, was too young to really understand. But Ted, his big brother, was a sensitive and talkative kid. If I cut my face shaving, he had a million questions. When he noticed the drawing of Brutus stabbing Caesar on the back of Newman’s Own Caesar Salad Dressing, it turned into a discussion about ancient Rome and political violence. But now, faced with his father’s mortality… Ted nodded and went back to his Magna-Tiles.

I woke up in post-op. Due to all the anesthesia, I was told I needed to urinate, otherwise the nurses would have to insert a catheter. I didn’t need any more motivation than that. I dragged my IV to the bathroom, where I caught my reflection in the mirror. I was wearing a sports bra with a tasteful floral pattern and scalloped edges, revealing just a hint of midriff. My purse was the perfect accessory. Feeling groggy, I sat down to pee. Soon after, the surgeon strode in, asking if I had any big plans for the holidays. Dear lord! But then he gave me excellent news: The surgery was a success. He was able to remove the entire tumor, and I had clean margins with no lymph node involvement. He joked that I should be good to go by bikini season.

I thought maybe that was it. It was over. I even let myself imagine life returning to normal. But I soon learned it’s never over. The next week was a flurry of exploratory meetings with oncologists. I wanted to throw the kitchen sink at my cancer, so I chose the most aggressive one. My new oncologist explained my diagnosis: stage 2A, high-grade, estrogen-positive tumor. Then she told me that since male breast cancer was so rare, with very little research, my treatment would be modeled on that of a postmenopausal woman. I would have to do chemo, then radiation therapy, followed by Tamoxifen, a daily estrogen blocker pill for five years.

As my first chemo session approached, I quelled my anxiety by being overly prepared. I hired someone to cook healthy, protein-heavy meals; I stocked up on weed like a college freshman; I purchased three hats, one a visor with fake hair, which I instantly regretted; I booked appointments with a physical therapist, a lymphedema specialist, an acupuncturist, a nutritionist, and a geneticist—turns out, statistically with my family history, I was at a higher risk for both breast and ovarian cancer. How is that even possible? I guess I am an overachiever.

When the day finally arrived, it was not as bad as I had feared. I had the image of a 1950s chemo ward in my head: sick, moaning, emaciated patients. But instead, the facility was bright and airy and overlooked a children’s playground where kids ran around, blissfully untouched by life. Still, chemo was no fun. Over time, the days blur together. Your mind gets foggy. Your muscles ache like you have the flu in slow motion. You’re in your body and not in your body at the same time. It’s as though you discovered a new room in your house. It’s empty except for you. There is a window overlooking the rest of your home, where there’s a big party, but you’re not invited. The window is locked and there are no doors.

One morning after my second round of treatment, I found clumps of hair on my pillow. I was dreading what was coming next, though I knew I was fortunate. As a man, being bald would most likely be seen as a choice. I didn’t have to announce to the world that I was sick. I asked a friend to come over with his razor. We grabbed a mini-vac and set up a chair on the porch. The first stripe down the center of my head was shocking. But as more hair cascaded into my lap, it felt liberating. The sun warmed my scalp. I glanced over at my boys. They looked confused and scared but absolutely mesmerized. Then Sam whispered, “Can I shave my head?” Ted, a little more reluctant—he had luxurious, rock-star hair and knew it—also volunteered. Twenty minutes later, all three of us were buzzed, rubbing each other’s heads, and cracking up. For a brief moment, I forgot about this disease. But just for a moment. At night, while I was staring at the ceiling, the dread and loneliness came crashing back.

But I trudged on into six weeks of radiation, a picnic compared to chemo. One afternoon in my oncologist’s waiting room, I noticed a flyer I’d never seen before: “Looking Ahead, After Cancer. It was for a monthly support group for stage 1 and stage 2 breast cancer patients who have finished treatment and have no evidence of disease.” That was me! I would finally be rescued from my desert island. It was as if a plane flew overhead and spotted the SOS I’d spelled out in driftwood on the beach. I signed up online immediately.

The night of my first session, I was surprisingly nervous. What do you wear to a breast cancer group? I ditched my usual hoodie for a button-down shirt. But it felt like I was trying too hard. I went back to a hoodie. But a nicer one. On the drive there, as I was listening to the Bangles to get in the mood, my phone rang. The director of the center hosting the group introduced herself and told me that after a long discussion, the staff decided I do not meet the requirements to attend. “What?! That can’t be,” I said. I was stage 2, posttreatment, no disease. She understood my confusion, but they were worried the presence of a man might inhibit open-and-honest discussion among the women. It was vital to keep it a safe space. She recommended other support groups that would be “happy to have me”—the pancreatic cancer group in the valley had a few openings, and the lung cancer meeting by the beach had a reputation for excellent snacks.

I pulled over on a quiet cul-de-sac and turned off the engine. I had been holding everything together for so long, but at this moment something in me snapped. I unloaded on her. I told her about the constant barrage of pink emails addressed to “Hey, Ladies.” About when I saw a car full of frat boys, I loathed them for their smug sense of invincibility. I told her I had become a vegan. Quit sugar and alcohol. Bargaining for a few more years with my family. And how my mother was now in hospice, dying from the same radiation that was just blasted into me. And about when I was shirtless at the beach or playing pickup basketball, no one asked about my very prominent scar, as if it was too shameful to mention. I confessed that one night I felt so alone I googled “Famous Men Who Have Had Breast Cancer” and learned about the actor Richard Roundtree, a.k.a. Shaft, and the drummer Peter Criss from Kiss. Impressive company, but in hindsight I wished I hadn’t included them in my rant. I told her no one in my life understood what I was going through. How could they? Male or female, I didn’t care. I just wanted my tribe. “And you want to deprive me of that? It’s not fair. It’s not right. You and your organization should be ashamed of yourselves.” I hung up, adrenaline pumping. But when the thrill of speaking my mind passed, I felt even more alone.

A month later I got another call. The board had met. After a heated debate, they decided to change their bylaws and allow men into the group. I sat there, stunned. I was still a little hurt and not sure I even wanted to go anymore. But after making such an epic stink, I felt like I had no choice. So, when the first Tuesday of the month rolled around, I put on my fanciest hoodie and drove to the medical center where the group took place after business hours.

The corridors were empty and quiet. The squeak of my sneakers echoed down the hallway. I found the right door, took a deep breath, and stepped inside. Eight women sat around on floral couches, sipping herbal tea, while one of them talked about how treatment had completely dried out her vagina. I instantly regretted coming—maybe they did have a good reason for wanting an all-female group. But they warmly welcomed me, uninhibited by my presence. They asked me questions about my own cancer journey, but mostly I just listened—passing the Kleenex box when someone needed it. I heard stories about sore boobs, lopsided and leaky implants, the vulnerability of standing naked in front of your boyfriend with only one breast, dating during chemo, trying to buy a flattering bathing suit for a changed body, lubricants to avoid yeast infections, how the meds made them bloated, and the loss of sex drive. A lot of the conversation made me uncomfortable. And yet, somehow, I knew I had to keep coming back. Unlike everyone else in my life, these women were not afraid to dive into the deep end and talk about the messy, embarrassing, and ugly truths of this horrible disease. And even though much of the discussion did not apply to my male body, in this small room that didn’t matter. We had more in common than we had differences. We were all breast cancer patients trying to move on with our lives.

It took a few sessions, but I started to let my guard down. And then I couldn’t stop. It poured out: all the things I had been longing to say to my wife and my brother and my friends. I talked about the lingering nerve pain from my mastectomy, the PTSD of chemo, the nighttime hot flashes from Tamoxifen, and most of all, my ever-present and terrifying fear of recurrence. I didn’t have to sugarcoat it. I felt understood without judgment. And when the Kleenex box was inevitably passed to me, I smiled to myself—a dude with one nipple finally found his people.

Nine months after I finished treatment, my mom died. She was 78, which no longer feels that old. I am told that with advances in medicine and technology, the radiation I received is far less toxic than what she endured 40 years earlier. I choose to believe that. My kids are now 19 and 22. This past spring I went to Wesleyan University for my rock-star-hair son’s college graduation. I was in the audience—a proud papa, healthy, alive, and cancer-free. Thank God for all my doctors. Even the ones I hate. Turns out the tuna carpaccio at Il Pastaio is excellent.

Rob Greenberg is a three-time Emmy winning comedy writer and director. He worked on Fraiser, How I Met Your Mother, and most recently, he co-created Animal Control, currently airing season five on Fox/Hulu.

Hear from Rob Greenberg at Sharsheret’s upcoming Men’s Health Webinar on November 10, where he’ll share his experience with breast cancer. Register here!